I had a date.  A proper one.  On Friday night.

I had mentioned that I had gone on a coffee date with British Commando Guy last week.  Well he rang and asked me on a ‘date’ date.  Since the Jew of My Dreams is still being damned elusive, I thought ‘Why not?  One can never get too much practice.  And I have some divine new FleurT undies.’  I am such a hopeless romantic – or optimist.  Whichever.  And I haven’t been on an actual date since New Joisey and Israeli Guy.

We emailed and texted, discussing what we should do on the ‘date’, finally deciding to go for a nature walk, call in at the Grotty for a few pints, have a meal, and come back to mine… to play Scrabble of course. 

Note to faithful readers:  Obviously I am writing in ‘code’ again. Get it?  Wink.  Wink.  Some details must be censored.   Christ, or Adonai, knows who is reading my blog by now.

In customary English fashion, it was pouring like a son of a bitch when Steve got to mine, so a nature walk was out of the question.  I opened a bottle of Zinfy, put on some mood music, and we chatted…sort of.  There were an awful lot of “Sorry?”, “What?”, “What does that mean if you were speaking to an Italian-American who doesn’t speak whatever language it is you’re speaking?”, “Could you repeat that…and s-l-o-w-e-r?”  Really.  But it was nice.

When the rain slowed down to Category 5 Hurricane status, we walked up Monument Road to the Grotty.  A piece of valuable advice:  Never have your date in a little town if you live in that little town.  Go to a pub in Esher or Woking, where nobody knows your name.  First, as we raced through Katherine Howard Close (I was running; he was apparently marching to Rule Brittania or some other patriotic song), we ran into Mad Tommy, and then Mabel and Eve, my old neighbours.  I just waved and carried on.  When we got to the lane, there was the Irish Lad getting out of his motor.  He stopped and waved, and I have a sneaky suspicion that was his mobile flashing through the pelting rain as he got some commemorative snaps.

The Grotty was packed.  Stupid me; of course it was packed.  It was Friday night.  So naturally I had to introduce Steve to like twenty blokes.  And whilst we were eating, at least ten people wandered through the Dining Room for no apparent reason except to check us out.  I actually heard someone say “Take a look.  Jeano has a date and they’re in the Dining Room right now.”  That is true.   Monkey Joe isn’t that discreet.  He came right over and sat down at our table, so he could check Steve out leisurely, asking where he’s from, what he does, etc.

This next part is embarrassing; embarrassing but true.  When we walked back to mine, I couldn’t find my house keys.  Booboo was working so I rang Terry, but he was out with Bald Rob.  I rang Pinkie, but she was in Woking.  “Do you have your key to my house” she asked, a little annoyed I think.  “Yeah, but it’s in my house with my keys” I told her.  “I’ll ring Terry” she said.  In the meantime, British Commando Guy was doing a reconnoiter around, probably planning to rappel the wall and come down through the chimney flue.  Suddenly, the front door opened and Steve said, “You left the back door open; your keys were in it.”  Oops.  I quickly rang Pinkie who rang Terry who was in a cab heading to his house to get the bloody spare set of keys.

Note to criminals and ex-friends:  I have now hidden another spare set of keys in the third flower pot on the left.

 Note to British readers:  Terry was at the Volunteer; Terry took a cab from the Volunteer to go home and get the keys.  I think you get the point I’m making.  It must be at least ten blocks.    But I was mortified.  And I am handicapped, as you know, and a little confused.  And it’s Rheims, not Rouen, Gabrielle…I mean Irish Lad.

Note to the Irish Lad:  I’m sorry I said you had a big car and a little brain (even if it was in French and nobody understood it anyway).

British Commando Guy left on Saturday morning (the ‘Scrabble’ was intense) leaving me barely enough time to get dressed and get to synagogue.  I rushed home, changed and Lulu picked me up to go shopping at the mall and have a late lunch.  Lulu dropped me and all my lovely loot off, (divine undies and drop-dead gorgeous boots; they were on sale-practically free)  when Pinkie texted that Pat was meeting us at the Grotty.  I quickly changed again, (why do you think I have so many clothes?) and dashed to Pinkie’s to walk up the hill with her for a drink with Pat.

Pat had been across the Pond in the States for absolutely ages.  Sadly, it appears that Pat and Mike are moving back to New York.  Hopefully, they won’t be leaving for a while.

We had a proper Girls’ Night Out, chatting and laughing and being deliciously bitchy and mean.  One drink turned into six or seven, and we didn’t leave until after last call.  Yes, Pinkie and I held each other up stumbling down Monument Road.  “Do you have your bloody keys” Pinkie asked when we got to hers.  I double-checked, just to be sure; I didn’t want Terry to have to take a cab two blocks down the lane at midnight.  “Yep” I assured her.  “And the spare set is in the third flower pot on the left…on the right…the one closest to the wheelie bin…I think.”

Monkey Joe was at the pub Saturday night.  He came over to ‘hug, kiss, knock into sharp object’ me, and said “I liked your boyfriend.”  Wow.  What a relief.  I don’t have to dump British Commando Guy.  ‘Sorry but you are hereby dumped.  Monkey doesn’t like you.”  “He’s not my ‘boyfriend” I told Monkey, “Just a bloke I’m dating until the Jew of My Dreams materializes.”

For some reason, I was not in great shape on Sunday.  I begged off dinner at Pinkie’s; I was in my pj’s all day.  I didn’t get dressed until Cheese Boy rang to say he and BooBoo Blondie were on their way over to pick me up to go to the Volly.

It must have been “Wear the Absolutely Worst Outfit You Can Think Of” night at the Volly for the Pub Slags and nobody warned BooBoo or me.  I begged Lou to take some pictures (he got a new camera and had it with him) but he wouldn’t do it.  I don’t think anyone would believe me if I described some of the getups.

Stop whinging that you’re blog deprived.  I do have a life besides sitting at my computer being interesting and hilarious.  I had a lot of engagements this week.

Easter Sunday it snowed…whenever the torrential rain wasn’t pelting down.  I did not put my nose outside the door.  I even eschewed the Volly that evening, opting to curl up under a throw and watch scintillating Sky Cable,  “The Queen’s Fifty Most Boring Public Appearances” followed by “Prince Charles Talks Frankly to His Organic Veg”.  Not that there weren’t other choices.  There is a channel that runs continuous episodes of ‘Law and Order’ twenty-four hours a day, or I could watch ‘Medium’, ‘Jag’, ‘CSI’, ‘Cold Case’, (I do watch that if I’m missing Philly), ‘Walker: Texas Ranger’, or ‘Nash Bridges’.  Seriously, I have met people who actually watch ‘Nash Bridges’.

On Monday I got an email from Bernie Cohen about the Comm Committee meeting on Tuesday night.  That was not particularly earth-shaking.  What was stupendously horrifying was that it came through MSN Live Spaces.  In the email, he noted that he didn’t have my email address so he’d googled me and found my blog.  “You didn’t, like, bother to read any of it, did you” I emailed back, going for a casual tone.  “Yeah, I did” he emailed back.  “It’s ever so funny.”  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!

I went to the Board Meeting anyway.  I met loads more new people.  After the Comm Committee’s part was finished, Bernie came over to introduce himself to me.  I knew who he was; he was the bloke in the kilt and yarmulke (at least in my fertile imagination).  Jane, Bernie’s wife, had to stay for the rest of the Board Meeting so he offered to drive me home.  Cousin Bernie came in for a coffee and to discuss the Haderech and ideas to jazz it up a bit.  Bernie could turn up at our Cohen Family Seder at Pesach and everybody would go, “Yo, Bernie!  Whassup?  What do think of the Phillies’ chances this year?  Why are you talking funny?”  He looks exactly like at least fourteen of Jerry’s relatives.

On Wednesday, I entertained a new friend from synagogue at mine—only for coffee, though.  I’m not confident enough yet to try preparing actual food.

On Thursday, I went to support Misa at my friend Chris’ sentencing at the High Court in Kingston.  He was found guilty.  So adding to my British ‘firsts’ I now have a friend in the Big House here.  It is called ‘Wandsworth Prison’.  I am being flippant because the whole thing was so damned unfair and upsetting and I’m not going to go into detail here. 

The Irish Lad turned up for Quiz Night, as did Sandra.  She is still sickeningly ‘in love’ but they have reached the point in their relationship where they can be away from each other for a few hours.  They just text each other every ten minutes.  Our team name for the night: Four Bitches and Two Butches. 

We came in third.  We could have won.  Sandra, frankly, had a misspent youth, and she and lover boy obviously spend a lot of time snogging on the sofa watching telly.  She knew positively everything about the dumbest stuff.  Examples:  Number of red balls in a game of snooker; number of apprentices on ‘Apprentice’; the surname of the family who lived on Nelson Mandela Close. 

As usual, I aced the ‘American’ questions.  In fact, the quiz moderator came over and quite seriously asked me how something was pronounced.  I looked at it and said ‘Des Moines?”  I pronounced it, and she said that at least four other people had said it differently.  “Trust me” I assured her, “I spent a year in Des Moines one weekend.  My husband’s company was there.  Everybody wears a cap that says ‘John Deere!!!’ on it with their overalls and says ‘the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye!’  “Really?  Why?” she inquired.  “I have no bloody idea” I lied. 

Note to Iowains with no sense of humor:  Yes, I know Iowa produces more  corn than all the cosmopolitan, sophisticated Right Coast states put together; yes, I know John Deere Tractors is the biggest manufacturer in the state and if you grow corn it’s probably a good idea to have a tractor or two; and yes, I have seen the musical ‘State Fair’.  I just don’t admit any of it.

I should be loyal to my butch teammates.  Screw that.  They’re both prats.  Men are so…. Stupid.  Question:  In a survey of 10,000 women,  the men of which European country were rated as the worst lovers.  Me instantly: “Germany!”  Cheese Boy: “Shut up, Jeano.  You only said that because you have that Jewish thingy going on, like not riding in a Mercedes. It’s probably Belgium because they’re so bloody boring.”  The Boy and the Irish Lad proceeded to diss the men of every other country in Europe except, of course, England and Ireland.  I think they finally agreed on Croatia.  Germany was, of course, the correct answer.

Question: The girl group that had five Billboard Top 100 hits.  Pinkie, Sandra and me: ‘Spice Girls!”  Dumb and Dumber:  “Bananarama!”  Me:  “Who?” 

And don’t get me started on how those two could think Klingons have red blood.  Honestly.

But the piece de resistance was the question about les roi de France and where they were crowned.  “Rouen!” crowed smarmy Irish Lad.  “No, you stupid git” I corrected him.  “It was Rheims.”  “Jeano, I know France very well” Terry said, getting all ‘I’m not an insular, clueless American’ on me.  “Yeah, well so do I” I retorted.  “I’ve been there a lot, unwillingly, it’s true, since I hate French people, and I’m telling you it’s Rheims.”   We bickered, male solidarity prevailed, and we went with Rouen.  Hommes- grosse corvette, petite cervelle.    

I am pleased to report that ‘Me and My Bitches’ did not come in last at Quiz Night at the Ash Tree.  Oh.  That is the cute team name Cheese Boy coined.  It refers to Pinkie and me, and Sandra, if she turns up (she and her ginormous boobs are ‘in love’ at the moment).  And Trigger, BooBoo and the Boy’s huge Lurcher, who takes up a lot of room and never knows the answer, no matter what the topic is.

No, we ended up tied for first place, with another team that is comprised of five blokes, all of whom apparently spend every minute of their days watching films, chat shows and bloody soccer matches.  We lost in the tie-breaker.  How was I supposed to know in which year the Hoover Vacuum Cleaner was invented?  It’s not like I send Mr. Hoover a ‘Thank You’ card every year on his anniversary.  I did ask Pinkie and the Boy if we were talking about the ‘Mr. Hoover’ who went on to wear women’s undies and spy on Elvis Presley, (I’ve been to his building in Washington, DC – as a tourist, not a detainee) but they said no; the vacuum cleaner one was an English bloke.  Hey, they didn’t know the answer either.

I did shine, as usual, on the ‘American’ questions.  The second question of the night almost got me.  “Eight American states begin with the letter ‘M’.  Michigan, Missouri and Montana are three of them.  Name the other five.”  “Right.  Carry on” Lou ordered.  “Okay” I said.  “Maine, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Mississippi and …”  I drew a total blank.  “Well?” my teammates pressured me.  “I’m thinking” I whinged.  “I know it.  Really.  I’ve been to all of the ‘M’ states.”  They started firing questions at me.  “What’s the state that New Orleans is in?”  “Is it the one next to New York?”  “What’s the one with all the cowboys?”  “What about the one next to South Dakota?”  “Yeah.  That’s it” I said.  “How could I forget ‘Morth Dakota?  It’s such a fun state.”  “Shut up.  I’m visualizing the map” I snapped.  Finally, the penny dropped and I crowed “Maryland!”  “Maryland?” Lou asked.  “Isn’t that the one where you claimed you kept your boat?  The one you said you spent every bloody weekend in for fifteen years?”  “Exactly” I answered.  “And I said booze is really cheap there.  What’s your point, Cheese Boy?  Just write down ‘Maryland.” 

A later question was “Name the movie in which Tom Hanks and Antonio Banderas were lovers”.  “Streets of Philadelphia” said Pinkie.  “No” I told her with a lot of Philly ‘tude.  “That was the song; the movie was called just ‘Philadelphia’.”  A childish squabble broke out, and I had to explain, very kindly, that they filmed the scenes at Tom Hank’s parents’ house right around the corner from my office.   We used to walk over at lunchtime to try and catch a glimpse of Antonio.  And of course I knew the governor of New York involved in a prostitution scandal.  But clever Pinkie solved the anagram question; that is usually my specialty.

On Friday night, I was out with Pinkie and Julie Clifton.  We went to posh Hampton Court – to a pub, what else?  This one was called the ‘Cardinal Wolsey’ after that really hot bloke in the ‘Tudors’ on American telly.  Not the one who plays Henry VIII; he’s hot, too, but I meant Sam Neill.  The Wolsey has live music so it sounded like fun.  Go know Julie likes heavy metal.  The band was called State of Cain, and every number consisted of the singer screaming really loud and rubbing the mike on his privates to keep it warm; the mike or his willy – I’m not sure.  The State of Cain groupies, and there were scads of them, were all dressed in black and chains.  I personally feel that gold compliments a little black skirt of some indescribable man-made material better than industrial steel.  I think Vogue would agree with me on that one, although diamonds work, too.   

I got schpielkas and wandered around checking out the pub slags and biker wannabees.  I met a lovely British couple when I went outside for a fag.  They had actually been to Philly.  (They were not ‘heavy metal ‘heads’.)    I spent ages shouting with them (over Willy Mike Guy’s screaming) about England and America and the pros and cons of both.

I will be attending my first meeting of the Public Relations & Communications Committee of the NWSS on Tuesday night.  I have already promised to help out with the Haderech, the synagogue newsletter and the website.  Bernie told me that they have ‘plans’ for me.  That’s why he called; Bernie Cohen is the Chair of the committee.  I did say to him “Cousin Bernie!”  He laughed and answered “Probably.  At least we’re mishpokhe (family).”  I almost fell off the sofa at the sound of Yiddish with a Scottish accent.  It was very sexy.  I confided that my Yiddish, although rusty, is loads better than my Italian, so we switched and chatted for a bit in mame loshn.  I will report all the details after the meeting.  I wonder if he wears a kilt with his yarmulke?

Sunday night was the Volunteer as usual, with the addition of Julie and the Jolly Scots, David and Margaret.  The DJ at the Volly is fantastic .  He plays an eclectic mix and really knows his music history.  Lou says he used to be on the radio.  The pub slags were there, looking as whorey as usual, except for BB.  Oddly, I ran into her during the week on Tudor Walk.  She lives in the next building from me.  I wanted to inquire how the dead furry thing was, but I restrained myself.  I did not invite her ‘round to mine for a coffee or copious amounts of alcoholic beverages.

Sunday night’s entertainment was provided by Pinkie, who exhibited a heretofore unmentioned talent.  She took on some of the regulars, and then David, and solidly trounced them all playing Snooker.  She was quite modest about her skills, but did tell us all that this week we need to get to the Volly at 7:00 instead of 9:00, as she has several high-stakes (Five Quid a pop) matches organized.

As I seem to celebrate a lot of ordinary Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, etc, St. Patrick’s Day passed with hardly a ripple.  I did walk up to the Grotto with the Irish Lad, but only to watch Amy and Eamonn Irish Dance.  Pat and Mike are selling the pub, and it has lost its flavour.  And there are forty-two other pubs just in Weybridge that are more convivial.  It’s sad, really; I had some great memories of wild long nights spent in the Grotty.  

Tuesday night I went to the Ash Tree with Cheese Boy for ‘A Night at the Races’, which were, of course, videos of horse races.  It was in aid of a children’s charity.  Neither the Boy nor I did well on our betting, but we did win the quiz done between the races.  I told you I was smart; this quiz was more general knowledge.

Wednesday, I had a date.  Really.  I’m telling the truth again.  Space constraints prohibit me from going into more detail.  English Guy was very…English.

On Thursday I went up on the train to London with Paula for Eileen’s luncheon at Boodles.  Boodles is an ultra posh ‘gentlemen’s club’, which has been around since 1762.  It was originally called ‘Savoir Vivre’.   At some point, probably in the 50’s, the 1950’s, they began letting women into the hallowed site.  I have quite a fondness for servile peasants in frock coats bowing and scraping to me as they lick my shoes (Ferragamos; from Neiman Marcus).  Honestly, it’s just like being on Masterpiece Theatre.

There were five ladies at the luncheon, which Eileen had pre-arranged and pre-ordered.  We were each presented with a personalized menu, written, I’m certain, by hand by another of the peasants in the Boodles Ye Olde Menu Shoppe in the cellar.  The meal included Fillet of Lamb with Herb Crust, Mixed Seasonal Vegetables and Jersey Royal Potatoes, followed by a lovely Grand Marnier Souffle with Orange Cream.  To compliment the meal, we drank Macon Uchizy 2006 (not the very best year) from Domaine Talmard, and Chateau de Gironville 2003 (a very good year) from Cru Bourgeois Haut-Medoc.  I complimented Eileen on her fine choices; there was no need for me to mention that I usually buy Ernest & Julio by the jumbo jug.   We had champagne before, during and after luncheon, as well.  Followed by cordials and then a lot of coffee.  (That helpful message at Waterloo, ‘Mind the Gap’,  is so true.)  I decided right then and there that I want to be filthy rich and posh if I ever decide to grow-up. 

The afternoon was quite jolly and more than a little risqué (especially after that much champagne) and as a finishing touch, Eileen presented each of us with an exquisitely wrapped present from Fortnum & Mason – beautiful taper candles.  I couldn’t help myself; I asked her for the Fortnum’s bag.  At least I will appear very posh to the rest of Tudor Walk carrying my ready meals home from Waitrose in my Fortnum’s carrier bag.

After I got home, as I was dressing to go out again, to Quiz Night, my phone rang.  The most incredible voice, with a Scottish accent, inquired “Is that Jean Cohen?”  “Yes, it is” I admitted, and the wonderful voice said “Well, hello.  This is Bernie Cohen.”

This past week saw a return to true ‘English’ weather, torrential rain and strong winds causing uprooted trees and seven hour delays on the motorways.  Actually, the Brits call that ‘Just Another Boring Monday”.

I was grateful to be picked up in a cozy warm Mercedes (it was definitely mink coat weather)  to go to Jack’s funeral.  To add to my list of ‘firsts’, this was my first proper English funeral.  Hopefully, it will be my last too, for a long time. 

It was a Catholic funeral, but I’ve been to many of those.  It was so…reserved.  It’s true that my experiences have all been Italian funerals, but Paula could have hired the ‘shrieking ladies’.  These are the professional mourners, dressed from head to toe in black, who moan and sob throughout the mass, pitifully calling out the deceased’s name.  The first time Jerry went to a three day long funeral for one of my relatives, he was gobsmacked.  He never forgot the sight of two of my aunts fighting for territorial rights and actually pulling one of poor Uncle Vinny’s shoes off.  (He was the dead bloke – in the coffin.)   

Of course, Jack had not been well for a long time, and in many ways, his passing was a blessing.  But everybody was so damned unemotional.  His cremation was private, so I don’t know if they had a ‘Fat Jenny’ for the grand finale.  She was the ‘pro’ who tried to throw herself into the open grave with the deceased.  This was quite a scene, as she was, indeed, extremely large and it took quite a few strong men to keep her from slipping down and landing on top of some poor dead goombah.

There was a lovely luncheon at Paula’s after the service, held inside due to the pounding rain.  Paula’s little house was mobbed, but somehow  I found myself chatting away to Anick’s father-in-law, Eric, the filthy rich Norwegian widower.  Perhaps he will invite me to Oslo for a weekend.  Why didn’t he invite me to Oslo for the weekend?  It’s like practically next door to England, and I can go positively everywhere now that I’m Italian.  Perhaps he’ll ring.

Eileen, and her accommodating chauffer, dropped me at my door, and I’m up to London on Thursday for luncheon with her at Boodles, one of the oldest and poshest private clubs in England.  It is certainly very nice to be me, the me who persevered for thirteen months to get back here and have all these brilliant experiences.

Pinkie and I did ‘Ladies Who Lunch’ on Wednesday, and then took my entire ‘fat wardrobe’ to the posh consignment shop on Baker Street.    Her car was full to the brim.  BooBoo had faithfully stored everything (after washing and ironing it; really, that’s true).  They were certainly chuffed to get all those stunning American clothes.

Lulu popped in for coffee on Thursday afternoon and then it was off to Ashford for Quiz Night.  Despite Pinkie and the Irish Lad, plus David and Margaret, we still came in third from last.

Friday morning was coffee at Brenda’s house, a new acquaintance from the synagogue.  I had to dash from that as I was meeting Allison for lunch at the Jolly Farmer.  Allison was one of the few people I hadn’t seen yet since I got back.  After lunch, she came back to mine for coffee and a long natter.

Unbelievably, I had no engagements on Friday night; I actually turned on the telly and watched back-to-back episodes of Torchwood.

Saturday morning, of course, I went to ‘Where the Jews Are’.  I needed some dates from the Irish Lad so I could work on the girls’ ‘Girls Gone Wild in Amsterdam!’ weekend.  I texted him, and as it was Saturday, I did the entire text in Yiddish.  He did answer, and with the dates, but I was prepared for retaliation.  This morning, I got a long text from the Irish Lad in Gaelic, in honor, I think, of St. Paddy’s Day.  These are the things that make being here so much fun.  I countered with an Italian one; let the language war begin.

The congregation at NWSS takes the Jewish commandment of Tzedakeh very seriously.  This refers to ‘kindness to strangers’.  I have received so many coffee and lunch invitations that I’ll be busy for months.  And I have been invited to the first seder for Pesach by no less than five people.  People actually ring just to welcome me to Weybridge and the community.  I did try to explain to Jackie, the Rabbi, that while I am here by myself, I am not strictly ‘alone’.  I do have good friends and support, but I guess you can never have a big enough network.

In a email from DooWop Guy from Exit 143 of the Garden State, he mentioned that two of the dating sites he and I, and many of the folks from the Schmooze, use have a UK site.  I had thought about deleting my profile from the USA sites; but the emails are so entertaining.  And I love to correct the grammar and spelling and send them back.  I hadn’t even thought about getting on any sites here.  But it was a simple matter to change my details and, voila, I’m on in England.

Amazing.  Same site, different location, same assholes, only with cooler accents.   Obviously there’s a pandemic of asshole-iness and nobody’s noticed.  Maybe some scientist will discover a vaccine. I honestly almost hope they’re actually the same guys from Jersey, just pretending to be British.

Jerk #1…ugh.  I don’t even want to discuss him.  Well, okay.  We instant messaged, which I hate.  It’s so inane.  He had an arsenal of emoticons so that he seemed witty or funny.  At least I guess that’s why a grown man would use winking heads and flashing thingys that go ‘Cool!’, ‘’Wow!’, etc.

Then he flashed one that was a woman doing oral sex on a guy.  “Did that give you any IDEAS?” he texted.  “No, not really” I texted back.  “I wasn’t really paying attention.  I was thinking about these stunning grey boots I saw in that really expensive shoe store on the High Street.  I should just pop in and find out how much they cost already. And it’s end of season; they should be on sale soon, don’t you think?”  (I type really, really fast.)  Strange, but he got annoyed.  “You’re fantasizing about boots?” he whinged.  Seriously, was I supposed to be fantasizing about him?  Okay.  Here’s a fantasy; he buys me the goddamned boots.   He hasn’t IM’d me again.  

Jerk #2 looked promising.  He could string a sentence together and even used words of more than two syllables.  Then he mentioned he was married and just fooled around.  I confess.  I was very bad.  I strung him along for a few days.  I was kind of bored and thought it would be fun to experience his seduction technique—on line, of course.  Besides, I’m ever mindful of the onerous job of blogging, and coming up with interesting and funny material is hard work. His thing was to send a long string of xxx’s and ooo’s and announce, “That was a hug!”  Wow, are we, like, in Pre-school and doing ‘Pretend Hour?”  “Ooh, Darling!  I’m a lioness now and my fur is all tingly from your hug!” 

XOXOXO Guy was never a serious candidate.  There was that little being ‘married’ strike; I don’t poach other women’s men (unless I get an opportunity to do Sting- in that case, all bets are off). And I certainly don’t need some bloke who thinks he’s going to sneak to mine on Tuesday afternoon for a quickie.  I am a JAP.  I require wining and dining, and expensive presents, like stunning grey boots.  Did I mention that he was Indian?  There’s that whole ‘cavaliers’ thing.  And he was smarmy; it was actually pretty funny.  I did wonder how he justified his behaviour to himself, but he didn’t seem to think cheating was a big deal.  If that’s not a humongous clue that he thinks women are worthless… 

We were chatting on line and getting romantic (he was, anyway. I was thinking about this black blazer I saw in that really expensive store on the High Street.)  Right in the middle, he goes, “I have to go” and signs off.  Hmm.  Is his house on fire?  Did MI5 just raid the premises because he’s the clandestine leader of an Al Qaida cell?  Or did his wife come home earlier than expected from grocery shopping at Sainsbury’s?  Whatever the reason, it wasn’t a real smooth move for someone trolling for casual sex, at least to me.

When XOXOXO Smarmy rang a couple days later, he actually had the chutzpah to say “Where did we leave off in our chat?”  When I sent his “You are Hereby Dumped” email, I couldn’t resist adding a little piece of advice that he needs to work on that jumping off-line in the middle of a sentence because his wife turned up.  Some women, unless they’re either clueless or desperate for male attention, might get put off.  I, of course, am so out of his league.

The Live Dot Spaces Blogging Police Cow rang me this afternoon (after she finished her shift at Terminal 4).  “Did you blog today?” she asked in a very threatening tone.

“BooBoo, I was at Jack’s funeral today” I reminded her.  “No, I didn’t blog.  Was I supposed to tote my laptop and do it during Communion?”  “I forgot” she replied.  And then, “How long is ‘Communion’? Could you have managed a short one?”  Really, BooBoo is so bloody literal.

Last night, I went to the Volly with the Three Musketeers, Manny, Mo and Dopey, or Pinkie, BooBoo and Cheese Boy.  That has become our regular Sunday night outing.  It was a most peculiar night.

I’ve mentioned Julie and the Pub Slag before, but last night the Volly was choc-a-bloc with whorey-looking women who were badly dressed.  Of course I don’t include my best mates, Weybridge Woofers and Ashton A-bombs in this demeaning category, even though a lot of texting back and forth had obviously occurred before they got to mine to discuss their attire.  The Bombs and the Woofers were proudly on display.

There was a female person called ‘BB’ who was giving lap dances to every bloke (and some women) in the pub.  This part is true.  She had on black evening shoes…with rhinestones, and she was wearing jeans.  She had this unidentifiable object slung around her hips…it might have been a belt.  As I commented to Pinkie, “Whatever it was, I hope it was well and truly dead before she tortured it.”

There was this blonde, sporting the Mother of all Camel Toes, and the jeans were truly tacky, with embroidery.  But wait; that’s not all.  As I commented to Pinkie, “That Sherpa from the Himalayas just rang again.  He wants his boots back…or else.”

The Pub Slag opted for a tight grey denim mini skirt, with spangles, paired with that awful black schmatte from last time and the black plastic boots.   Oh, and black tights, for that ‘goes together’ looks.   As I commented to Pinkie, “I guess her little sister can’t go out because the Pub Slag is wearing the entire family’s spare article of clothing.”

There was this other blonde, badly in need of a root job, a hot oil treatment and a good blunt cut, wearing light blue denim with, I kid you not, black tights, brown high heels  and a striped top.  As I commented to Pinkie, “The ‘Do’s and Don’ts’ Editor at Vogue just hung herself in the shower.”

For some reason, I feel so good I might take a break and go eat some ice cream. 

I’m back.

At this point in the evening, I got tired of critiquing the fashions.  It might have had something to do with the hunkalicious soccer player from St. George’s College who shoved his washboard flat stomach in my face.  I obligingly got out a byro and wrote my mobile number around his adorable little navel.  Then I danced with all of his mates.  I know that I make stuff up one in a while, but sadly, this is all true.  Cheese Boy recorded it on video on his phone, whilst Pinkie took candid snaps on hers.

Then as if the evening could get any more exciting, three blokes sat down at the next table from us.  Bloke One kept staring at me.  Bloke Two kept tapping my genuine (positively to die for) black suede boot with his trainer.  Bloke Three tried to start a convo with me.   As I commented to BooBoo, (Pinkie had, for some reason, gone and sat at a table with total strangers)  “Yahweh Wept!  And that other guy, too!  They’re Arabs!  I am such a bloody Arab magnet.”  I simply ignored all three of them with my best Philly ‘tude.

The Three Arab Amigos had a quick pint, - isn’t imbibing a no-no for them? - and got up to leave.  As I commented to Cheese Boy, “They’re probably running late for the bombing.”

I had fun.  I can’t speak for Manny, Mo and Dopey.

BooBoo rang this morning to nag me about doing a blog.

“I just finished posting it” I told her.  Ten minutes later, she rang back to say “That’s only up to Friday night and Monkey Joe.  And you skipped a lot of stuff.”  Honestly, who appointed BooBoo Blondie Sister Wife the ‘Live Dot Spaces Blogging Police’?  Maybe she needs to get a hobby like hanging out at Terminal 4 and harassing innocent Americans.

Switching gears again, this next bit is not meant to be funny.  I ran into Paula on the High Street.  “How’s everything?” I inquired.  “Jack died” she replied.  I was gobsmacked.  “Sorry” I said, “What did you just say?”  “Jack died” she repeated.  “Eileen was going to ring you.  He had a stroke and was rushed to hospital in an ambulance.  He had an infection and his heart gave out.”  I was upset, and honestly didn’t know what to say.  I know what a terrible burden the last year or so has been for Paula, but I also know what a trauma it is to lose your spouse.

When I got home, Eileen had rang and left me a message on my answer phone.  She is picking me up tomorrow morning (in her chauffer driven limo) to go to the funeral mass and luncheon afterwards.  Poor Eileen is really upset.  Jan, her husband, is dying too, of pancreatic cancer, and every day is a struggle for her.  Again, I can relate, all too well.

I did get up on Saturday morning and manage to trek up to Oatlands Park to services.  It is almost the festival of Purim, and NWSS (North West Surrey Synagogue) was hosting the teenaged participants of the annual Purim Spiel.  NWSS won last year, which is why they got to host this year.   This reminded me that I need to score some homentasch.  I love them, especially the cherry ones.

Okay.  For those Gentiles out there, homentasch are pastries filled with fruit.  They are folded into a triangular shape to represent Haman’s hat.  During the Purim celebrations, it is traditional to have a Purim play recounting the story of Haman.  It is also a tradition to really screw over the hard working mothers of children attending Hebrew School by forcing them make a homentasch costume for their Aleph-Bet offspring, since there are always twenty or thirty little homentasch milling around during the show knocking each other over with their corners.  (“But I don’t want to be a poppy-seed homentasch, Mommy!  How come Avi gets to be apricot?”)  Maybe because I just spent two fucking hours drawing the poppy seeds with a leaky Magic Marker?

During the Oneg Shabbat after services, I was introduced to the most drop-dead incredibly gorgeous man.  Jackie, the rabbi, said to me “Let me introduce you to another brand new member.”  Hmm.  Yeah.  Absolutely.  “This is Fabien.  He’s from Paris.”  Ooh-la-la!  “Shabbat Shalom, Studly French Guy.  Voulez vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?” (No, of course I didn’t say it out loud.  Some of you readers have no sense of humour.)

Studly French Guy goes “Hi.  Nice to meetcha.”  Wait a second.  “You don’t sound French” I told him suspiciously.  “You sound like the Mid-Atlantic States.”  Maybe he can fool the English with the ‘Fabien from Paris’ story, but I’m too smart.  “And you sound like you’re from Philadelphia” he countered.  I suspect it was simply a lucky guess.

It turns out Fabien went to Ohio State for uni.  “No” I gasped, truly horrified.  “You’re a Buckeye?”  “Of course” he replied, “A proud one.  And are you a Nittany Lions fan?”  Even though I’m like 25 years older than him, it could have been the start of a beautiful friendship.  “Of course” I told him.  “Joe Paterno’s picture is hanging in my bedroom.”  I went off in search of non-Big-Red manliness.  Really, with my bloody luck I figured next I would meet a bloke with a Roller who would invite me to visit his ranch, The Circle Mezzuzah, near Dallas.   I’m sure we all know what the answer would be.

Answer:  You’re Jewish….you’re richer than J.R. Ewing…but you’re from Texas, for Yahweh’s sake!

After the Oneg, I was invited to Shabbat luncheon by a lovely woman called Estelle whom I’d met last week.  She lives not too far from me near the Thames River in a rambling old house with incredible stained glass windows and a magnificent garden.  Her husband is called Michael and he is an invalid; he has had several strokes and is in a wheelchair, partially paralyzed.  Michael was a criminal barrister before he was incapacitated, and a movie extra at nearby Shepperton Studios.  Although his speech is garbled, he was charming and very funny.  He told me he’d been an extra in a Jane Fonda film, and I asked ‘Barbarella?’  “I wish” he said, and named a film I’d never seen.  He’d been in one with Judy Garland, Cliff Richard and many others.

Michael is a music buff.  He showed me his music room and said he has 25,000 CDs and vinyl albums.  His taste is very eclectic, although he prefers classical.  I was able to bullshit very convincingly about Eugene Ormandy, Ricardo Muti and the Philadelphia Orchestra, which is one of the Big Five in American orchestras.  Of course, Muti is gone now, replaced by Charles Dutoit.  I did see Ormandy, a long time ago. Thank God for the Inquirer on line.  I was able to say, truthfully for a change, that I had seen Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops perform the 1812 Overture during the Independence Day festivities along the esplanade of the Charles River.  Michael and I discovered that we’d both seen the Beatles, Genesis, Santana, Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan and Billy Joel in concert live.

Luncheon was delicious.  They’re, of course, Kosher, so it was salmon, potatoes and a salad, and challah with a wonderful kosher Israeli wine.  Estelle told me that she uses a kosher butcher in Staines and offered to set me up with ordering from him.  You can all stop laughing now.  I explained that I seldom eat meat (almost true) and that I’m not strictly Kosher.  I did ask her to invite me for lunch during Pesach for fried matzah (another delicacy Jerry never let me make).

I think I have made another lovely new friend. Estelle drove me home (it was pouring) and popped in to see my little house for a few minutes.  We made plans to get together for lunch next week, and talked about some activities she’s going to schlep me to to meet more new people.

This should be a busy week, two dinner engagements and two luncheon already.  And the Scots invade on Wednesday, meaning David and Margaret are flying down from Kirkcaldy.  I predict many visits to many pubs and many boisterous meals out.  I am definitely going to ask Margaret to make arrangements for us to go to the Tattoo this summer in Edinburgh.  I have always wanted to see it and she has connections.  
 

It was just a ho-hum ordinary week in Weybridge -  shopping with BooBoo for more bits and bobs for my little house, Quiz Night in Ashford with Cheese Boy, Tea Lady Duty, lunch with Hester, a condolence call to Chris with Lulu (he was found guilty), getting well and truly pissed with Monkey Joe.

I’m not going to talk about Chris’ conviction.  It is so unfair.  Obviously having BooBoo and me testify as character witnesses didn’t help.  He is out on bail and will be sentenced on 27 March.  Lulu and I are going to go with Misa to the sentencing to support her.  It will be really tough on her and baby Mia while Chris is in The Big House (or whatever they call the Federal Penitentiary here).  I hope his cellmate’s name isn’t ‘Bubba’.

The Irish Lad was meant to come to Quiz Night this week, but he had to cancel at the last minute.  Pinkie was working, and Sandra never turned up.  I don’t think it was the ‘stupid cow’ comment last week about the Stars & Stripes.  I think she had a date.  Yeah, sure; she gets dates.  Her boobs are enormous.

So it was the Boy and me.  Honestly, he doesn’t know anything about anything.  I have a perfectly valid excuse.  I never saw any of those dumb telly programs or chat shows, and I don’t watch boring soccer 96 hours a day.  I don’t understand why he couldn’t pay attention all those ‘lost’ years.  And if we disagree on the correct answer, he goes with his.  That is so like a bloke.

“It’s ‘Australians’, you wanker!  Not ‘pseudonyms’.  And you spelled ‘pseudonyms’ wrong.”  Sorry.  I had to vent for a minute.

The evening kind of goes like “I don’t even know who the bloody ‘Milky Chocolate Moo Boy’ is!  How do I know why he looks different now?  Maybe he had a sex change operation.”  “No, Lou.  I don’t know which drummer of a nineties punk band stood for Parliament in Shropshire.”  Question: “He played ‘Rumpole of the Bailey.”  Lou: “OOOH!  What’s his name? I can see his face.”  Me:  “If you’re seeing his face, you had one too many Fosters.  Bugger you, Cheese Boy.  It’s ‘Leo McKern’.  He was in ‘Help!’ I’m starving!  Can we order some Thai now?”

Pinkie turned up after her shift ended to provide some unpickled brain waves, and we didn’t, for a change, come in last.  One team was even dumber than us.

I knew it wasn’t a wise idea to meet Monkey Joe for ‘one little drinkie’ after visiting Chris.  The next day hurts too damned much.  But off I went, protesting vigorously, with Lulu to the Old Crown.  Monkey was waiting and greeted us loudly, “At last!  Here comes my two skinny bitches.”  Monkey Joe could have been a poet if he didn’t build houses.  After he grabbed, squished, kissed and banged me into the nearest sharp objects, he said ‘What are you having?’  I had to get up the next morning to go to Where the Jews Are, so I said “A tomato juice, please, Monkey.”  “The really skinny one will have a very large white wine” Monkey told the barmaid.  Yeah, it was gonna be one of those nights. 

Monkey informed me that (a) I am now ‘too skinny’, (b) I need to eat a proper meal, and (c) my boobs stayed behind in the States when I moved.  He also said that he couldn’t just casually pop ‘round to mine for a Fosters any more because ‘you’re not fat anymore’. I am not sure if this was a compliment or an insult.  I am exactly the same Jeano I always was, except of course, much better dressed despite being boob deficient.

One thing I vividly remember, before it all went pear shaped, was going out for a fag.  It was better when you could smoke inside.  I think all the blokes outside smoking at every single pub have all recently escaped from Wormwood Scrubs Prison.  I try very hard not to speak to anyone.  Opening my mouth just invites dumb questions like “Are you American?”  Ever-mindful of those wonderful folks from Immigration, I feel compelled to say “No, I’m Italian.”  I really don’t feel like trying to explain things to very pissed blokes. 

I have to admit I didn’t see this one coming.  One of the blokes asked, quite seriously I thought (in my wine soaked befuddled state) ‘Any Anglo-Saxon in you?”  “No” I said, “Just Italian.”  “Would you like some Anglo-Saxon in you?” he inquired, “Like…me?”

Yes, I woke up on the sofa in my Lounge at midnight when BooBoo rang to ask how Chris and Misa were.  “OOH, BooBoo” I whinged. “I was out for a drink with Monkey tonight.  I don’t feel so great.  Can we talk about this in the morning?”

Ever practical and solicitous BooBoo actually said “Remember to take a snap of yourself puking to send to Stuart. You promised him.  I’ll ring in the morning to wake you up for synagogue.”    

As  planned, I did go ‘round to Oatlands Park on Saturday morning to suss out ‘Where the Jews Are’.  I went to Shabbat services at North West Surrey Synagogue.  I do wish it had a cooler name like ‘Adath Israel’ or ‘Rodeph Shalom’, but never mind.

Everyone was so welcoming and friendly, in a most un-English sort of way.  It’s a mid sized congregation, with a mix of all age groups.   They class themselves as ‘reform’ rather than ‘conservative’, but like everything else here those terms mean something completely different than in the States.  The service was much more intense that what I was accustomed to.  And they don’t have a Chazzen or ‘cantor’.  The congregation sings.  Honestly.  I did not make that up.  (I had this vivid picture of Jerry grumbling in shocked disbelief  ‘They’re singing?  Why are they singing?  I don’t think they’re real Jews.’)

A very nice woman called Angela sat with me to sort of guide me through things.  She had an aliyah during the service.  When she came back to sit down, I said ‘Mazel Tov’.  This is the done thing, at least in the synagogues I’ve been in.  It sort of means ‘Congratulations for not screwing up the Hebrew or tripping coming down from the bimah and falling flat on your tushie.’   She was gobsmacked.  I guess I made an EnglishJewish  faux pas.

The Torah portion was from Exodus and the Haftorah portion was from Jeremiah 9:22.  I quote: “Lo, the days are coming – declares the Lord – when I will take note of everyone circumcised in the foreskin …”  Wow.  “Hell, yeah” I thought.  “That is so true.  That’s why I’m here.”  That was obviously a biblical portent and a secret little message just for me.

After services – they do say ‘Shabbat Shalom’, I waited until they did just to be sure and not embarrass myself if they said something else like ‘Jolly Good Saturday’ or whatever – it was the Oneg Shabbat.  The president of the congregation introduced me and said how glad she was that I’d come.  I was panicking, just a little, that they might ask me to say Hamozi over the challah.  I didn’t want to bless the bloody Channukah candles by mistake.  Thankfully, she did it, and the wine too.

People came and chatted with me and invited me to all sorts of synagogue related activities.  There’s a women’s club, a book club, a movie club, a modern Hebrew language class, and so on.  There’s even a communal seder for Pesach, which I’ll probably go to.  There was one woman, very nice, who had on the most stunning grey boots.  I was in lust.  Only the religious angle kept me from boot-jacking them.  They looked like they would fit me.

Switching gears, on Sunday Darling James surprised me and turned up at the Grotto to welcome me home.  Yes, he was wearing his G-men jacket and Super Bowl hat.  Paybacks are a bitch.  I will be posting the snaps he took of me wearing said items of attire (when hell freezes over).   He showed me all sixty two hours of video he took at the bar in New York during the game and at the parade.  We nattered for a few hours, and Jarvo just happened to ring him.  James said he was with me, and Jarvo asked to speak to me.  He invited me to go with the blokes to a ‘Quins match next weekend.  I’m really chuffed.

This next part is absolutely true too.  I went outside for a fag (James quit!) and someone whom I know slightly followed me out.  The Official Secrets Act of 1537 prohibits me from saying more than it was Pikey ****.  He put the moves on me.  Actually asked if he could ‘call around’ to mine.  “No” I answered.  Pikey **** and me?  Teehee.  Teehee. Teehee.  As if.  Not to mention that that would be all around the Grotto in a Weybridge minute.   Then, when I was leaving to meet Karen and CheeseBoy to go to the Volly, someone else, whom I’ve known forever, copped a feel during our goodbye snog.  I am sure about this because I had only drank tomato juice.

I was telling Cheese Boy all this at the Volly while we were slow dancing.  “What was that all about?” I pondered.  CheeseBoy was stymied, too.  “It can’t be that sweater” he agreed.  “Your boobs look microscopic.”  I can always count on Lou.  (Julie and the Pub Slag were both there with gigantic tits on offer.)  When I went out for a fag at the Volly, it happened again.  Smoking is dangerous to one’s health, unless BooBoo comes along for protection.  This bloke was even more revolting than Pikey ****.

That’s it.  That stunning brown sweater (from Anne Taylor) is getting donated to Ox Fam first thing Monday morning.